You're Enthralling, John Watson
by ampoke
Summary: John's been having PTSD induced night terrors and Sherlock can't do anything but remind John that he's loved


"John! Lastrard just called us in. There's been another string of murders. They say that there's no similarities but I need to go prove them wrong! You should see the crime scenes. I've seen-"

Sherlock ran up to their bedroom and busted through the unlocked door. He'd expected John to be awake by then.

John was laying on his half of the bed almost completely uncovered. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat and his face was contorted in anguish. Sherlock walked slowly towards the bed. He noted that John's breathing was rapid and his eyes were moving under his eyelids. John let out a series of strangled groans and whimpers before his breathing faltered, and his body went limp.

He'd fallen unconscious in his night terror.

Sherlock sat on the bed next to John. He thought for a few seconds over what he should do. Waking up people having night terrors could be dangerous. It could scare the person into hurting themselves or others.

Then, John's hand reached for his shoulder. The pads of his fingers grazed the raised skin from where a bullet had once dug itself into his flesh.

Sherlock reached forward hesitantly. He ran his fingers over John's shaking hand and then wrapped it in his own. He brought the hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"John…" he called. "John. Time to get up."

As much as Sherlock itched to get on the case, he was learning slowly that he did, in fact, care more about John's well being than he cared for any mystery that needed to be solved.

John flinched at Sherlock's voice, and his eyes shot open. He breathed sharply and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Sher?" he called sleepily.

"Yes, It's me." said Sherlock. "It's just me."

John's hand fell with Sherlock's to his heaving chest, and Sherlock could suddenly feel John's racing heartbeat.

"Was it the guns?" asked Sherlock.

"Wh-what?" stuttered John, suddenly looking scared again.

"Was it the guns?" Sherlock repeated. "That triggered your night terrors. The gunfire during our last case."

John closed his eyes for a moment and thought back. He started shaking, and his heart began beating even faster at the thought.

It had most definitely been the guns. It was almost always guns that caused his flashbacks. On rare occasions, it would be pain or screams, but it was gunshots that typically caused John to fall back to his worst state of PTSD.

Sherlock tensed and reached forward to caress John's face. He did his best to calm John down, apologizing for bringing anything up.

"It's not important," said Sherlock. "All that's important is that you're feeling okay."

John nodded slowly and intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's.

"Thank you."

"Can I- uh…" stuttered Sherlock. "Lay with you?"

John nodded and moved over enough to fit Sherlock's thin body on the bed. Sherlock let go of John's hand only to remove his coat and shoes before getting into the bed. He wrapped both arms around John's warm body and pulled him into his chest. John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's.

Sherlock could feel John's ragged breath against his face. He looked into John's face and saw that the tense muscles were unwinding, and a content smile had spread across his mouth. This made Sherlock smile too. Even if he didn't know how to sometimes, he was getting better at knowing when he'd made John feel better.

"How about you take a little nap," suggested Sherlock in a whisper. "And then I'll order some take-out, yeah?"

John did nothing but hum in agreement and before long his snores were tempting Sherlock to following into sleep. This urge was laid to rest when Sherlock got distracted while staring at John.

His face was relaxed and utterly… enthralling.

Enthralling seemed to be the only word that did John justice.

Originally meaning enslaved but shifting meanings in the four-hundred years since the word was first written in history. Something enthralling would capture and keep the attention of the witness.

John had never been able to slip from Sherlock's mind. He was the one thing that managed to keep Sherlock in line because he was the one thing that Sherlock never lost interest in no matter how many miles a minute his mind was going.

Enthralling… that was most definitely the right word.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's eyebrow and slowly left a trail of kisses all the way across John's face.

"What are you thinking about, love?" asked John's raspy voice.

"You," said Sherlock.

John's eyes opened and he looked around. The sun from the window was reflecting off his eyes and casting a blue tint onto his cheekbones. Sherlock felt his breath get stuck in his throat.

"You're enthralling, John Watson."

John looked confused, yet pleased with Sherlock's random bout of admiration.

"Oh, thank you."

Sherlock felt heat rising to his face, but he smiled through the slight embarrassment. He could never tell when he'd make it weird of uncomfortable. Luckily for him, John wasn't shy when it came to letting him know.

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's and moved a hand up Sherlock's body.

This was all the sign he needed to know that he'd done nothing wrong.

"Sherlock?" said John quietly.

"Yes?"

"I love you. I'm sorry that you couldn't go out on a case today."

Sherlock kissed John's forehead and held him tighter.

"I'll go wherever you are, John."


End file.
